


The One With Scarves.

by dwarrowkings



Series: Kink_Bingo 2012 [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Derek wears Stiles's clothes, M/M, and also Laura feels, but not kinky at all, just sad and feel-y, kink bingo, with an extra side of feels about Stiles's mom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-23
Updated: 2012-08-23
Packaged: 2017-11-12 17:26:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/493812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dwarrowkings/pseuds/dwarrowkings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I know that you don’t exactly get sick like the rest of us who aren’t blessed with superwolf immune systems, but that doesn’t mean that you also have to be <em>cold</em>.” He spits the word like it’s poison.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The One With Scarves.

**Author's Note:**

> This is literally just emotional fluff in which Stiles lends Derek a scarf and then they talk about their lost family members. This would never ever ever happen in canon ever, because a) they live in California, does it even get cold there? and b) neither of them are ever this forthcoming with their feelings. This is dedicated to the wonderful Sam, who has neither Ao3 account, nor tumblr, but who, is above all else, my best friend and roommate who I somehow shanghai'ed into watching Teen Wolf without realizing it.

It’s not a big thing, Stiles swears. It’s cold and Derek has a good wool coat - Stiles has seen it - but nothing else. He wasn’t raised to not spread the love whenever he could.  
And so what if the scarf that he wraps around Derek’s neck is the one that his mom made him. The one he thinks still smells of her, not the way she smelled in the hostpital room, of death and urine and stale hair, but of _her_ warm and sweet and faintly of blackberry bushes. It’s not like he ever wears it anyway.  
Derek’s eyes go soft. “Your mom made this,” he says, his voice quiet in the same way he’d said “You have a good relationship with your father.” So, really, it’s not a big deal.  
“It’s fucking cold outside,” Stiles observes, by way of answer, and then “I know that you don’t exactly get sick like the rest of us who aren’t blessed with superwolf immune systems, but that doesn’t mean that you also have to be _cold_.” He spits the word like it’s poison. His mom had always been cold, there towards the end. Cold and feverish and wracked with infection after infection that her body couldn’t fight anymore. Her lips had cracked and bled and Stiles had had to rub petroleum jelly on them, just to keep them from bleeding.  
He still feels the vaseline on his fingers sometimes, and has to go wash his hands so the others don’t see him panicking.  
“Stiles,” and it’s gentle in ways that Stiles thought were burned out of Derek, ways that had been cut out of him and shot and scattered to the wind with the ashes of his family and the pieces of his sister. It’s then that he realizes that Derek can probably hear his heartbeat, thumping frantically in his chest. His hands are shaking and he’s just as lost as he was when his mom was sick.  
He tries not to cry, tries to choke back the tears, but he doesn’t quite manage it.  
“It’s so stupid,” as he wipes his eyes, frustrated. His nose is stopped up, and he hates that he’s this way, that he can cry so easily about his mom. He bites on his bottom lip to stop himself from saying anything else, but also to stop himself from crying. He breathes out heavily through his nose, a deep, steadying breath.. “It’s not.... I... I didn’t mean to cry, it’s just...” he begins, but can’t finish.  
Derek’s hand is big and warm on his shoulder when Derek finally whispers “Thank you.” Derek doesn’t say that it’s okay to cry, but Stiles knows that’s what he means. He looks into Derek’s eyes, and he sees that Derek gets it. Probably understands better than Stiles himself, because he knows that if Stiles can smell his mom on the scarf, Derek can too.  
“I have one of Laura’s shirts,” Derek starts awkwardly, and Stiles looks away, secondhand embarrassment crawling across his skin, unwarranted and unwelcome, “and when I’m lonely, I take it out and wrap my pillow in it, so I can pretend that she’s still here. That when I open my eyes, she’ll be coming in the door. She used to go out a lot, always liked people. She was so good at getting people to laugh, to listen. At getting them to love her.” And it’s the most Derek has ever said about his family, or about anything and Stiles is stunned. “You remind me of her,” so low that Stiles thinks that Derek didn’t say it at all but he looks back at Derek, hands in his coat pockets, flushed high on his cheeks, burrowing his face into the borrowed scarf, and Stiles doesn’t think he imagined it.


End file.
